Staged
by el.invierno
Summary: Teenage problems are often written off as superficial. But when eight high school seniors all facing iccues that are anything but superficial come together, the explosive aftermath makes it clear that some teengagers face problems of intensity beyond what even some adults could imagine. A realistic look at high school fiction that is equally cynical and optimistic. IS PS CS ORS
1. The Prologue

**The Summary:**

Belleview Heights is hardly a remarkable town. It's large enough to appear on most local maps, but small enough that it's practically unknown to all but the residents and the residents of neighboring towns. This year, however, is going to be anything but unremarkable. Eight high school seniors with their own problems, stories, secrets, and struggles come together, and only one thing is certain: this is going to be an explosive year.

**The Characters:**

**Paul** is a famous musician. He's sold countless records, and won more awards than anyone could ever need, but to him, the money and fame are merely annoyances. They are simply downsides to sharing music with those who really need it. Through his dark and tragic childhood, music became his only solace, and he knows better than anyone what music can to do during bad times. Now, music has become his life, and he's become an extremely dedicated musician. As his fame and popularity steadily grow, so does his desire to escape it all. That's how he finds himself in a small town, with the plan to finish high school in a public school, after a year of private tutoring. But after being in the world of his own music for a year, the sudden return back to the real world reveals the same darkness he tried to escape.

**Dawn** is often described as cheerful, girly, and bubbly, or as shallow, annoying, and too talkative, depending on who you ask. She's pretty, popular, and has a wardrobe full of designer clothes. She loves famous musician Paul Shinji and his music, but while she seems like an airhead mindlessly following whatever's trending and popular at the time, her reasons for loving Paul Shinji's music are far from that. Because beneath her masterfully crafted facade of a perfect life is a pile of deep, dark secrets. She's doing everything she can to hide them, but she's not sure how much longer she can last. Especially with the police closing in.

**Gary** is in big trouble. Last year, he didn't pay much attention in school. Which in itself wasn't a big deal, because Gary had a bunch of other things going on his life last year, so his grandfather understands and is fine with it. Unfortunately, his teachers aren't so understanding, so he finds himself with almost-failing grades. While he scraped through by the skin of his teeth, thanks to a ton of luck on multiple choice exams, this year, he doesn't know what he's doing because he didn't pay attention last year. With the fear of actually failing this year staring him in the face, he finds hope in actually passing in the form of Leaf Greene, an old friend who offers to tutor him. Soon, however, he discovers that Leaf might need his help more than he needs hers.

**Misty** is about to have twelve years of athletic pay off. She's a committed competitive swimmer who has recently been winning plenty of regional swim competitions, and, as a result, has received what she has always dreamed of: an invitation to compete in the World International Swimming Championships. As she prepares for her chance to truly shine, she realizes that she has another dream, one that is much more personal. And only one can come true.

**Drew** is confused. He know that he likes May. A lot. But after being scarred from a past relationship, he's not sure if he's ready for more romance, now or ever. That's not his only problem. May also seems oddly distant. Drew doesn't know why, but it's just making him more and more confused. He doesn't know what to do. He needs to do something, however, before it's too late.

**Leaf** is scared. Right now, her mind is a terrifying place, and it scares even herself. Checking her email isn't helping, either. She slowly starts moving towards darker thoughts, and all her efforts to distract herself are in vain. She's powerless against her own mind. She tries to internalize everything to prevent bothering anyone, but she may just destroy herself in the process.

**Ash** is an aspiring musician. He may be goofy and slightly immature at times, but there is one thing that he's serious about: music. He dreams of going far in the industry, like his musical idol, Paul Shinji, but his single mother is struggling to make enough money for the both of them, so Ash does all he can to help, shoving his passion for music into a backseat. Finally, he has a chance to get a golden ticket straight into the industry, but his chance is slipping away. Quickly.


	2. Paul - Everything We Are

**The lyrics used in this story are original lyrics that I wrote myself. They won't be at a professional level.  
**

* * *

_Is this everything we ever will be?_

_Is this everything we are?_

My first thought when I enter the house is that it was way too bright. My second thought is that it was way too big.

The walls of the house Reggie chose are more window than wall, and are covered in nothing but gauzy white curtains that block almost no light.

The house is also way too big. It would be too big for a family of four, let alone just me. It has four bedrooms, four bathrooms, and three floors and a basement. It's also designed to look bigger than it is. The ceiling in the living room is vaulted and goes all the way to the roof. The other floors wrap around the living room, making the space feel open, bright, and big.

Ha. As if it's not already too bright and too big.

It's the smallest house in this neighborhood of big, fancy, houses, apparently. It was also the most expensive house in the whole town. Perhaps that's why Reggie chose this house. Money stopped being an issue about ten months ago. How ironic.

If it was anyone else, I would have violently protested. I hate large amounts of light the same way most hate the dark. I also hate fancy, big houses. But I owed Reggie way too much, so I didn't protest too much.

After examining the house, I go out to collect my boxes, which were brought over by a moving company an hour ago.

As I pick up the first box, a boy with green hair who appears to be close to my age walks by. He's walking a small brown dog and wearing headphones.

He stops in front of my house, probably because of the collection of boxes littering my driveway.

He takes off his headphones.

"Hey, did you just move in?" he asks.

I immediately dislike him. Who randomly stops to talk to strangers and asks them if they've just moved in?

I snatch up some smaller boxes and pile them on top of the box I'm holding before turning and going back inside, pointedly ignoring the irritating stranger standing in front of my driveway.

"Ok. That's not rude at all," he mutters, before putting his headphones back on and entering the house beside mine.

Ah. So he's my next door neighbor. Lovely.

Coming back to public school will be strange after the past year. I was so busy writing and recording songs, working on contracts, and dealing with media outlets to have time for public school, so I was privately tutored by a licensed educator.

This year, I'm focusing less on my career. Maybe that way, my manager might finally take a hint and stop trying to shove interviews, endorsement offers, collaborations, and tours on me.

Still, I'm starting to regret my choice. Rejecting interviews, endorsements, and other stupid offers, although bothersome, is probably easier and infinitely less painful than having to socially associate with the foreign species that is the high school student, which I will subject to starting tomorrow, the first day of this school year. The green haired idiot serves as the perfect example of why associating with high school students is so painful.

At the same time, though, I crave the normality of just being a normal high school student, which is ironic, because I've never just been a normal high school student. Even before I became famous, I was anything but normal, in perhaps one of the worst possible ways.

It's been a long time since I've really felt anything, but right now, I'm feeling a little excited, because tomorrow, I'll feel the abnormal feeling of normality.

* * *

Belleview Heights Secondary School is amazing in that it's completely lackluster. It manages to be neither clean, shiny, and new, or old, rundown, and broken. The once-red roof is now a faded brownish pink, the flower beds in front of the school are surrounded in cracked bricks and filled with small, slightly drooping flowers, and the letters on a sign with the school's name are slightly chipped, with the second H in "Heights" missing.

Students mill around the doors and in the entry aimlessly.

I'm half and hour early, but the halls already seem crowded. It's likely a side effect of this high school being the only one in town, and being below average in size.

Through the glass panels in the main doors, I can see the office. It would be hard not to; "School Office" is written in big, black letters on the door,

That's where I'm supposed to go. Apparently, I need to pick up an orientation package.

I manage to slip through the crowd and get to the office quickly.

A secretary behind a large desk directs me to a side room, where a man is sitting at a desk.

"Hello. You're a new student, right?" he asks.

"Yes," I say.

"What's your name?" he asks, turning to his computer.

"Paul Black."

My birth name sounds foreign now, after going by my stage name, Paul Shinji, for the past year.

He types my name into the computer, clicks a few buttons, and the printer comes to life, spitting out a small pile of paper.

He picks them all up, staples them, and then slides them towards me.

"Nice to meet you, Paul. I'm Mr. Blakeway. I'm here to make sure all our new students get settled in, so if you have any questions, feel free to ask me," he says.

I thank him, and exit the office.

I examine my time table. All my academic classes are advanced placement, which is a testament to how effective private education can be.

Apparently, many elective classes were too full, so not everyone got into the electives they wanted.

I scan my timetable. Out of my four first choice electives, which were French, Spanish, psychology and business, I got none of them. How nice.

Instead, I was stuck with foods, drama, art, and music. Music. How lovely. As if I need to take a class to learn about that.

It's kind of sickening. Everywhere around me, friends are reuniting after three months of being apart. They're hugging each other, exchanging gifts and souvenirs, and saying things like, "I missed you so much!", "I love you so much, girl!" and "It wasn't the same without my bestie!"

Don't they realize that in two or three years, after we've all gone our own ways to colleges, universities, and careers, they probably will barely remember each other? And even if by some miracle, they manage to keep in touch, some day, death will part them? And all of that's considering that they're reasonable enough to not let selfishness, stupidity, or emotion tear them apart before they finish high school.

I never believed in friends. At least, friends like this, when there was nothing significant holding them together. I have three friends. One of them is my brother, and all three of them have saved my life in some way. I know them all like I know myself, and they probably know me better than I know myself. That's the sort of friendship that means something, not some person you barely know beyond whatever shallow conversations you have and that you meaninglessly say "I love you" to. I've always hated it when "friends" say I love you to each other. It destroys the significance of significant words, in a way that seems as sacrilegious as translating a holy book into text speak.

Maybe normality isn't a good thing, but so far, it's not bad. Not worse than the abnormality I've faced, anyhow, but that means barely anything.

* * *

I have a very deep hate for gym class. Not because I'm bad at it, or because I disagree with physical activity, but because it's pointless. Most of the time, it's just an hour wasted on sending projectiles at each other. It epitomizes an exercise in futility. There are plenty of better ways to exercise, like running and martial arts, which both have some sort of importance. But really, what does smacking stuff at people teach you? Nothing good.

Furthermore, only about half the class really does anything in gym. The other half spends gym texting, talking to friends, standing around, and attempting to conceal their lack of effort.

I'm also decent at gym. Being athletic, or at least being able to defend yourself and to run quickly, were essential skills where I grew up. I'm well versed in... contemporary martial arts. After I started earning a decent income, I trained in more traditional martial arts as well. Often times, it's hard to find a partner or team who can keep up with me. I hate having to work with people who can't keep up with me, because no matter what they say about teams, I know better than anyone that life is mainly a battle royale.

"Because today is our first day, we'll start with something easy," my gym teacher, Mrs. Coghart, announces, "I'll put everyone in random partners, and we'll play a badminton doubles tournament. Each team is going to find another team to play against, and we'll play for five minutes. After, the winning team will find another team to play against, and the losing team will be eliminated. We'll keep going until one team wins."

The phrase "random partners" makes me internally groan. When things happen arbitrarily, things go wrong. That's how it's always been. And it likely wouldn't change this time. With my luck, I'd get paired with some airhead who couldn't hit the birdie for their life.

My luck has apparently taken a turn for the better, because I get put with Gary, a guy with spiky, auburn hair who can actually play.

We win the tournament easily. Admittedly, the exercise in futility that is gym class is marginally better when you get a decent partner.

"Wow man, you can really play," Gary tells me at the end of the block.

"Thanks. You're not so bad yourself," I say, pulling out my schedule to check what course I have after lunch, which is next.

"Whoa, you're taking all advanced placement courses?" he asks, looking at my schedule with me, "I'm only taking basic courses because I still have some grade 11 stuff to finish."

Gary isn't completely awful, which is why I don't protest too much when he insists on joining me for lunch.

"My friends are distracting, and I really need to do some work," he admits, "Also, you seem really smart, so I was hoping you could help me a little."

In the end, I agree to help him. We look at functions together.

"You're a good teacher. It's too bad I already have a tutor," Gary says near the end of lunch, "Her name's Leaf, and she's an old friend of mine. Actually, she's sitting over there."

He points to a table across the cafeteria. Four girls are sitting there, giggling and talking discourteously loudly. There are two brunettes, a redhead, and, strangely enough, a girl with dark blue hair. A strange choice of color, but I can't say much. My hair is currently purple. I have a good reason, though. I'm trying to go unnoticed, so I dyed my normally-black hair a strange color to draw attention away from my face, to avoid being recognized.

"She's wearing the green shirt," he explains.

The four girls are seriously annoying me, even from a distance. They're acting like a typical, mindless gaggle of popular girls.

My distaste for them deepens exponentially when one of them, the blue haired girl, pulls a CD out of her handbag.

It's a very familiar CD. It is a simple white background, with a shattered glass vase. "What They Say" is printed on in all capitals. The font is simple, neat, and black.

It's one of my CDs.

* * *

Last block comes quickly. Despite it being the first day, I've been assigned plenty of homework. Aside from gym, all three of the other classes I've attended so far - AP Physics, AP Chemistry, and AP History - have all left me with substantial amounts of homework. Luckily, it's all very easy, because I know all the concepts already. Another testament to the virtues of private education.

My last class is AP English, which is one of my best subjects. I've always liked writing, even before I developed a multi-million dollar career from my writing.

My English teacher, Mr. Connolly, is similar to Mrs. Coghart in that he likes to put us in random pairs for projects.

He demonstrates that by announcing that an important part of learning is understanding why we learn, so we'd be put in pairs, and had to write an essay about why we learn English, to be handed in tomorrow.

Like in gym, I hate partner projects, because I'm, in Reggie's words, "a pedantic overachiever and perfectionist who unreasonably refuses anything short of perfection". Personally, I prefer to say that I'm dedicated and ambitious.

I get paired up with "Drew Hayden".

"Hey partner," Drew says behind me. I turn around to see who my partner is.

Officially, normality sucks. Drew Hayden turns out to be a code name for the annoying green haired idiot who doesn't understand the concept of "don't talk to strangers". Ha. Look who's talking. I'm being a major hypocrite.

"Oh. It's you," he says dismissively. He pulls in a pair of green ear buds, which discreetly blend in with his green hair, preventing Mr. Connolly, who's still calling out partners, from noticing what he's doing..

The funny thing is that he goes from ignoring me straight to listening to my voice blasted straight into his ears through mini green speakers. I see him select "Everything We Are" off his phone's music library.

After Mr. Connolly finishes calling out the partners, he gives us time to work. Drew sighs and grudgingly takes out his earbuds.

"If we don't want to fail, I guess we're going to have to be civil to each other," he admits reluctantly.

He makes a good point.

"Fine," I reply curtly.

"It's a good thing we're next door neighbors; we can work on this after school," Drew points out, "I'm free all afternoon, so if you're free too, who's house do you want to work at, and when?"

"We can work at my house. How does 4:30 sound?" I ask, trying to be diplomatic.

"That's fine," he agrees.

For the rest of the block, we individually brainstorm, which is our covert way of ignoring each other.

* * *

I have work to do before Drew gets here. I've already unpacked a few things, and among them are some rather incriminating pieces of evidence. There's a couple pictures in small frames of Reggie, my two other friends, and me. In these pictures, I look identical to how I look on stage, with my hair its natural color and my eyes green, instead of the grey color they are now, thanks to tinted contact lenses.

Dying and trimming my hair, using a little bit of stage make up, and wearing contact lenses have somehow made me look like a different person. If you look closely, you can still see a slight resemblance, but nothing striking enough to recognize me.

I slide the generic sample pictures of sunflowers that came in the frames in front of my pictures. I move my hair dye and make up off the bathroom counter.

In the office that has become my studio, I've already unpacked some recording equipment, so I put it back in the boxes, except for my guitar and a single microphone on a stand. My book of all the songs I've written is gracefully crammed behind the dishwasher, and some contract papers are stashed inside a box of random trinkets Reggie insisted that I bring. I don't get why; they're all gimmicky pieces of junk with little use other than to take up space. Among them are a fish shaped cutting board and a toaster with flashing lights that looks like a really cheap prop from a really cheap sci-fi movie.

By the time the doorbell rings, it is nearly impossible to tell that a famous musician lives in this house.

Drew arrives at exactly 4:30, which, I have to admit, displays impressive punctuality.

"Wow. I forgot how big the houses on this street look when they're new and empty," he remarks, looking around.

"Yeah, that was one of the first things I noticed too. It's way too big for two people, but my brother chose it," I say. None of it's a lie, but it's more than a little misguiding. My brother won't be living with me here, except, perhaps, for the occasional visit. He knows that I need a little time alone to find myself again.

"You live with just your brother? What about your parents?" he asks.

"Yeah, my brother is thirteen years older than me. Both my parents died when I was six. Our house burned down," I say, my voice distant and apathetic, as if pretending that their strange death doesn't haunt me to this day might make me believe it. It doesn't work.

"Um, let's work on the essay," Drew suggests, looking slightly uneasy.

He pulls out his laptop, and opens up a document full of his notes.

"So, here's what I have. I think we learn English so that we can communicate with each other, and because it's an important skill to have when we grow up, and in post secondary education," he says.

How trite.

"Why do we need to learn English like this though? Does being able to define iambic pentameter and being able to identify a gerund really help us communicate? And what if one didn't go to post secondary education? Is learning all this English?" I point out.

"Well, um," he stammers a little. "Can you do any better?" he asks, irritated.

"I think we learn English people don't want the language to change. In the past, English has evolved so much; the vocabulary is completely different, and the grammar has changed majorly. They're scared that without hammering in lessons with fancy grammatical terms and very specific conventions, we'll evolve the language too. It will change into something completely different, and unless they keep up, it will leave them behind. People don't like change, but they do like to communicate. They want the English that we communicate in to be the same English they learned and they know. That's why we don't learn about text speak and slang in English, even though that's arguably more useful these days."

"Okay, that's pretty good, and actually really true," Drew admits, "But that's basically a critic of our education system. I don't think Mr. Connolly will like it much."

What a stupid sentiment.

"And so what? So what if he doesn't like it?" I ask, slightly annoyed.

"He might fail us," Drew explains.

That's his concern? Really? Well, easy for me to say. I don't need good marks to get into a good university; I already have a decent career.

"And so what if he fails us? I'd much rather fail on something I truly stand by than do well on complete lies," I snap back.

He shrugs. "Fine, whatever. If we fail, though, then-" he starts, but I cut him off.

"Then I'll take full responsibility," I finish.

"Deal," he agrees.

We draft our points and paragraph, and then write the essay. The essay we end with isn't bad, even though Drew's writing is inferior to mine.

Drew's opinion is much more positive.

"This is great. We might get a good mark after all," he says.

"It's acceptable," I mutter noncommittally, but Drew doesn't hear. He's walked into my office/studio.

"You play guitar?" he asks.

"A little. I sing a little too," I say. A blatant lie. There's nothing little about my singing and guitar playing, unless having multiple triple platinum records and winning eight major music awards in one year counts as little.

"Cool. My friend Ash does too," he says, inspecting my studio. He picks up a folder of sheet music off my music stand, and I realize too late that I forgot to hide something.

"Paul Shinji? You have good taste," he notes, pulling out the score for "Everything We Are".

"Play for me," he requests, handing me the score.

"No," I reply, putting the sheet music back on the stand.

"Fine. I'll play it. You asked for it," he warns, taking my guitar of the guitar stand. Before I can protest, he starts strumming random notes and glissandos, and wailing out the lyrics in an extremely obnoxious way.

_I know they said that we control our own fates_

_But I don't think that I have what it takes_

_Are we stuck like this?_

_Can we not change?_

_Is this everything we ever will be?_

_Is this everything we are?_

The only resemblance this mess has to my song is that it coincidentally has the same lyrics. It's extremely painful to listen to. I snatch my guitar back, and set it back on its stand. I take the sheet music too, smacking him on the head with it for good measure.

"You," I say, "are awful at playing guitar, and your singing is just as bad. Kindly never repeat that performance again."

"Harsh," he says, but he's laughing. I laugh a little too, because I never thought that my work could sound like _that_.

"You're a fan of Paul Shinji too?" he asks.

"No, I just have the sheet music," I say. Technically, it's true. I'm not a fan of myself. Knowing what I do about my past, it's hard to think anyone would be a fan of me.

"You should actually listen to his music. It's really good. Ash showed his music to me, actually," Drew says, pulling out his phone to play "Everything We Are".

It's strange. The voice is familiar, the words are familiar, and the guitar accompaniment is familiar, and yet it sounds foreign coming from Drew's phone.

For the chorus, Drew takes my guitar off the stand and joins in.

He sounds better when he isn't purposely trying to sound obnoxious, but only slightly. Also, his guitar playing still sucks.

"Any career that involves singing, guitar playing, or any form of music is officially out of the running for you," I remark as the song ends, taking my guitar back.

"Good thing that music was out of the running to begin with. My dad's forcing me into business," he says cheerily. He picks up the sheet music folder and takes out "Perpetual Pain". He reclaims my guitar, and treats me to another amazing performance.

_We're trapped in a vicious cycle_

_Of hurt and hate and perpetual pain_

_And I just want to break away_

_But I'm trapped in my own mind_

_I've blocked off my own escape_

At the hands of Drew, lyrics that were once so personal and meaningful have become noise that isn't even worthy of being called music.

"Stick with business," I tell him, taking back my guitar. I laugh a little, because he's so ridiculously bad.

"There goes my dream," he says in mock dejection, "But you're actually not that bad."

"You're not bad either," I reply.


	3. Ash - Every Moment

_Time is golden, I have to agree_

_At least, time's a golden blade, already plunged in hilt deep_

_And every moment just cuts deeper into the wound_

_And every moment, just reiterates that it'll all be over soon_

I haven't had much time to write songs in the past two weeks, because a huge catering order had come in at my mom's bakery, and I'd been baking tart shells, macarons, and choux pastry almost non-stop. That's fine, though. They paid a lot.

For the first time in weeks, I pull out my song writing notebook, and pull out my guitar. It's bright yellow, and extremely beat up, but I got it from a garage sale for fifteen dollars, so I guess you get what you pay for.

I turn on Paul Shinji's Every Moment for inspiration first. He's what I want to be, where I hope music can take me. The lyrics sound like a beautiful poem, albeit a very dark one.

Of course, I'm not going to be writing anything like what he writes. He made it big because he was unique, and he's unique because he's impossible to imitate.

I normally write upbeat, pop, love songs, because statistically, that's what's popular.

I turn off Every Moment, then stand and reach to pick up my guitar. In one fluid motion, I somehow manage to hit myself in the face with the headstock and flick a handful of guitar picks that were on the table beside the guitar all over the room.

"Ouch."

I only pick up the one guitar pick I'm going to use, resolving to clean up the others eventually.

I look at the guitar/murder weapon, glaring at it for a good ten seconds, before swinging the strap over my shoulder, hitting my stomach in the process.

Deciding to work on the chorus first, I strum chords until I find a melody I like, and then reach for my notebook.

_Windy gusts make the leaves fly_

_And an open starry sky spreads far and wide_

_The full moon is an enchanting sight_

_Yes, tonight is a beautiful night_

_But I can only look at you_

_Because you even outshine the moon_

_Until the sun rises and the magic fades_

_Let's dance this night away_

Not bad, I decide.

I'm working on the first verse when my mother comes in.

"Ash, why are there guitar picks littering the floor?" she asks, unimpressed.

Eventually apparently wasn't good enough.

I blurt out the first thing I can think of and point to my guitar accusingly.

"He did it!" I claim.

I don't think I was very convincing. My mother breaks into laughter.

After she calms down, she says, "Be gender neutral, Ash. If that guitar is even sentient, it's just as likely to be a female. By the way, I need your help. We need 200 mini quiches for tomorrow morning."

I put down my song notebook and follow my mother to the kitchen. I'm not even upset that my rare chance to work on my songs was disturbed. I've gotten used to it.

* * *

Music class has always been my favorite. It's a fun class. It's a mixture of theory and practical components. We learn a lot of music theory, as well as some history and composition skills. For the practical component, we learn to play the guitar, do voice lessons, and do practical tests on scales, chords, and pieces. We also go on field trips to see the part music plays in the world, and we work with other instruments too. We also compose some songs. I'm good at it, and there's very little homework. Also, Mrs. Durnes gives us candy. That's always a plus.

I'm excited as I walk into the music room with my friend Drew. The music room is my favorite classroom. At the front is a stage. The backstage area of the stage serves as our drama classroom.

In front of the stage is the music classroom. It's shaped like a semi-circle There's a small orchestra pit in center, and then three tiered platforms that curve around the room like a set of giant stairs. Chairs are spaced neatly along the three steps. There's a long shelf that runs along the curved, back wall. Guitars in black gig bags fill the shelf. Most people use the school guitars, because they're pretty good guitars. They're better than my bright yellow guitar, anyway. Others use their own guitars. There's a few doors to back rooms at either end of the shelf. One room is for people to store their own guitars in.

There are a few people sitting in chairs already. Mrs. Durnes stands in the orchestra pit.

"Everyone grab a guitar from the shelf when you come in, unless you brought your own guitar," she announces as we walk in.

Drew walks towards a guy sitting on the lowest step. He has purple hair, which is unusual, but I've known Drew for two years, and green hair's a lot weirder.

The guy with purple hair has his own guitar. I can tell because he has an actual guitar case by his feet, instead of a gig bag. The guitar case is glossy and jet black, like a well-polished grand piano. There's a very large and indiscreet, sturdy looking silver lock on the case. Wow. Someone has obvious trust issues.

"Hey Paul," Drew says, sitting down beside him, "Have you handed in our essay yet?"

"Yeah, I gave it to Mr. Connolly before coming here," the purple haired guy, apparently Paul, replies.

"Ash, this is Paul. Paul, this is Ash," Drew says unceremoniously.

"Nice to meet you," I say brightly. Paul stares at me critically.

"I'd say the same, but I think honesty is the best policy," he says, turning back to his guitar.

It takes me a few seconds to realize that he just said something mean.

"That's... not very nice!" I say.

"That's a pathetic reply," he says, still looking at his guitar.

"Ugh. Meanie," I mutter.

"Hello, class!" Mrs. Durnes says, interrupting my very important conversation with Paul, "For those of you who haven't taken music before, here's how the class works. This class has practical, creative, and theory elements. We're going to do guitar and voice lessons, and you'll have little tests on guitar pieces or scales and whatever. We're also going to learn some music theory, some music history, and some composition skills. We'll work with some other instruments, compose some pieces, and we'll go on field trips to understand the part music plays in our world. Speaking of, our first field trip will be next Wednesday, 8 days from now. We'll leave as soon as school ends at 3:30, and we'll each take a guitar and drive down to New Crompton. There, we'll split into three groups, each guided by a teacher. Each group will walk to a subway station, and then we'll split into partners, find a spot in the station, and busk for an hour, for the purpose of gaining real world musical experience. At the end of the hour, we'll meet up at a restaurant and have dinner. There, we'll see how much everyone made, so you can experience what it's like for street musicians, and discover how the public values music. Then, I'll give some special prizes and bonus marks to the three pairs that make the most. Each pair will donate half the money they make to a charity we'll decide on as a class, and they get to keep the other half. The field trip, like all field trips, is not mandatory, but does count for marks, so if you don't come, you will have an alternate assignment. However, I highly recommend that you come. The cost is $7.50, which covers your dinner. You'll need to get your parents to go online and sign the form by Monday."

"That sounds exciting," I whisper to Drew. He shrugs. He isn't nearly as into music as me; he just wants the easy marks.

"Today, we'll do guitar and voice assessments, so I can see what level all of you are at," Mrs. Durnes continue, "I'll call you to a back room in groups of three. Please bring your guitars."

Mrs. Durnes calls out three of my classmates, and then takes them into one of the back rooms. She does this every year, and I know what to expect. I practice some chords on my guitar while I wait.

"Drew, Ash, and Paul," Mrs. Durnes calls, poking her head out of the back room.

The three of us go into the small room. There are four chairs in the room at a table, three on one side, and one on the other, facing the three. Mrs. Durnes sits in the chair that faces the others.

"Hello, boys. Please sit," she says, gesturing to the chairs.

She turns to me first. "Ash, what level of experience do you have with playing guitar," she asks, smiling a little, because she knows my ability pretty well, as this is her third year of teaching me music.

"I know all the basic skills and techniques, I can compose, and I can play pretty well. I've played for about eight years," I say. She writes something down in a notebook.

"Okay, can you play this?" she says, sliding me a sheet with chords written on it. I play it easily.

"Great. Now, I'm going to have you play something for me that shows me what level you're at, in terms of skill and technique. It can be an original piece, or it can be an already written song. I'll give you a moment to choose," she says.

She then turns to Drew, and asks him what level of experience he's at.

"This is my second year playing. I started last year, when I started taking this course. I know the basics, but I'm not that good," Drew says. She offers him a sheet of paper with chords on it, and he plays them, albeit with a little hesitation.

"Now, I'll get you to play something of your choice too. I'll give you a minute to choose," she says.

She moves onto Paul, and I turn slightly so I can watch this. Hopefully, the meanie will fail and embarrass himself.

"What's you level of experience with guitar playing?" she asks.

He hesitates, obviously struggling to find the best way to describe it. Ha! You can't make being brand new sound good, no matter how you try.

However, when he starts talking, it's obvious he's trying to downplay something.

"I've only played for a few years," he starts slowly, "I compose a little too."

"Okay. And how many years have you played?"

"Ten," he responds, no longer trying to beat around the bush. Mrs. Durnes looks a little surprised. Most people wouldn't call ten years a only few years, nor would they try to sound like they were less experienced than they were. Hm. Maybe Paul is really bad, and ten years of practice hasn't helped much. He's probably embarrassed.

"Okay. Play these chords for me," she says, offering him some chords to play too.

He lifts his guitar up, which has been sitting on his lap and out of view the whole time. It's a really nice guitar; it's a darker wood than most guitars, and extremely polished. It looks very classical, almost more like a violin or viola than a guitar.

He plays the chords with ease. The apathetic expression on his face makes it obvious how easy he thinks this is.

"Good. Now, I'll give you some time to decide what you want to play," Mrs. Durnes says before turning back to me. "Okay, Ash, have you decided?"

"Yes. I'm going to play "Every Moment" by Paul Shinji," I say, as if it wasn't obvious. It's one of my favorite songs, and it sounds really nice on guitar.

"Ah. This particular piece seems popular in this class," she says, smiling, "as well as some of his other works. Go ahead."

I play about thirty seconds of the familiar melody before she stops me. It's a very nice song on guitar, and has complexity to it. It takes some skill to play it, and sounds extremely impressive.

"Very good, Ash!" she says, applauding, "Now, Drew? What have you decided on?"

Drew chooses a much easier song, a pop song by Amelia Queen with a stupidly simple melody.

Drew's playing isn't that bad, though. Paul looks surprised. When Drew finishes his thirty seconds, Paul raises an eyebrow at him, and quietly mutters, "That wasn't nearly as obnoxious as yesterday! Why couldn't you have saved my ears?"

Drew chuckles softly, and mutters something back.

"Very nice, Drew. Now, Paul?" she says, and I turn to watch Paul once more.

"I'm playing an original piece," he says curtly, before starting to play.

He's amazing. His fingers move with such agility that they look like they're dancing. The guitar's sound is great, but Paul could probably sound amazing on even my broken, bright yellow guitar. The song he plays is emotional and complex, sweet with longing, melancholy notes. He's not nearly as good as Paul Shinji, but he's perhaps the second best guitarist I've heard.

Mrs. Durnes seems to share the sentiment. Her eyes are closed, and she's swaying slightly to the music. She doesn't stop him at thirty seconds like she does with everyone else. She's too invested in the music at this point.

He finishes the song on an unsatisfying, sorrowful note. It makes the song seem more beautiful. It's a technique Paul Shinji often uses.

"That was lovely!" Mrs. Darnes says effusively, "That was completely amazing!"

Drew looks surprised, just like Paul did when Drew finished playing.

"Why didn't you play like that yesterday? I completely underestimated you!" Drew mutters.

Mrs. Darnes finishes writing something in her notebook.

"Next, I want to see how you fare at singing. Ash, please sing this," she says, sliding a score to me. It's the alto part of a well-known choral piece. I look carefully at the notes before I start singing it.

"That's nice. Now, I'll get you to sing something of your choosing. Again, I'll give you some time to choose."

She moves onto Drew and Paul. Drew's decent, and Paul's pitch perfect.

"Okay, what will you sing?" she asks.

I smile a little sheepishly. "The same song I played."

She laughs. "Go ahead," she says.

I sing the very familiar lyrics.

_Time is golden, I'd have to agree_

_At least, time's a golden blade, already plunged in hilt deep_

_And every moment just cuts deeper into the wound_

_And every moment, just reiterates that it'll all be over soon_

_Oh, every moment_

_Every moment just hurts more_

"Good," she comments, before moving on to Drew. Drew sings a classic song from a musical, because it's easy and hard to mess up.

Finally, she moves onto Paul, who sings another original piece.

_The confines of iambic pentameter are suffocating_

_It makes us feel we need to be perfectly organized to be poetry_

_Even the simplicity of a poem like a haiku_

_Makes us feel like we have to be beautiful and natural_

_To be worth poetry_

_Can't we just believe_

_That we've all got a little bit of poetry_

_That inside, we're all a little bit of poetry_

"That's a beautiful song," Mrs. Durnes remarks, "And you have a nice voice."

She finishes writing down some comments, and then lets us leave.

"You're really good Paul," I say diplomatically.

He ignores me.

"I didn't know you could play like that," I continue, unperturbed.

He ignores me.

"Are you going to keep ignoring me?" I shout angrily into his ear.

"Yes," he replies.

"Ha! You acknowledged my question, therefore, you weren't ignoring me!" I say triumphantly.

Paul shoots Drew an annoyed glance. Drew shrugs helplessly.

Paul's phone rings. He scowls at the caller before leaving the classroom to answer the phone.

"What's up with him?"I ask Drew.

"He's actually not that bad," Drew says.

"Very funny," I mutter, clearly not impressed.

* * *

I swim, occasionally. Not competitively, of course, but sometimes, Gary and I will go to the pool and splash each other in the face. It's not really swimming, but it's fun.

Gary and I walk to the swimming center after school. It's not far, and the walk only takes about five minutes.

There's five pools inside the center, plus a hot tub, sauna, and giant waterslide. There's a big leisure pool with a waterfall, waves, and some smaller waterslides, a pool for swimming lessons, a public length swimming pool, a shallow pool for kids, and another length swimming pool where competitive swimmers can book a lane to train in.

We pass by the private training pool on our way to the leisure pool. Standing at the end of one of the lanes is a red haired girl who I recognize. Her name's Misty, and she's in my grade, and one could say we're friends, but we're far from close.

Gary and I stop to say hi. She's wearing a plain black one piece and checking a waterproof watch.

"Hey Misty," Gary says.

"Oh, hi Gary. Hi Ash. I'm waiting for my trainer. We're supposed to be training for a swim competition, but she's stuck in traffic," Misty explains.

"You swim?" I ask, very tactfully.

"No Ash. She stands around in a swim suit, participates in swim competitions, and has a swim trainer, but she doesn't swim," Gary says. I can't tell if he's being sarcastic.

Misty laughs a little. "Yeah, I swim. I'm pretty competitive, and I'm trying to get into the World International Swimming Championships," she explains.

Gary looks amazed. "Really Misty? Good for you!"

"Yeah! Good for you!" I say, but then I realize, "Wait, what are the World International Swimming Championships?"

Misty and Gary both look exasperated.

"It's a basketball tournament," Gary says. Is he being sarcastic? I decide to assume that he's not.

"Really? You play basketball too? Hmm, the people who named the tournament aren't very smart. A lot of people are going to think it's a swimming competition," I point out.

Misty face palms.

"Yes, it is a swimming competition. It's the biggest swimming competition in the world," she says, sounding equal parts exasperated and irritated.

Oh. So Gary was being sarcastic.

"I've won a handful of regional swim meets, actually," Misty says, "And I might get an invitation to the nationals."

"That's great, Misty!" Gary says.

A woman walks over. "Hey Misty, sorry that I'm so late. The traffic was brutal," she says apologetically.

Misty smiles. "It's fine," she says, and then she turns to us, "Sorry, guys, I have to start training."

"It's fine. Nice talking to you Misty. Good luck with your swim competition!" Gary says.

"Bye Misty! Good luck!" I reiterate.

Is my classmate really going to participate in the world's biggest swim contest? It's impressive, to say the least. She's making something big out of her dreams. I wish I could do the same.


	4. May - In Bloom

_Yes, growing season's just begun_

_And hurt and hate, sadness and pain_

_They're all in bloom_

"How can you eat that?" I ask, examining the lumps of beef tendon floating in Misty's bowl of pho, "It looks nasty!"

"It's good! Try a piece!" she says, picking up an especially disturbing looking chunk with her chopsticks and holding it in my face.

Misty and I are having dinner in a small pho restaurant. It's sort of a tradition among the four of us - Misty, Leaf, Dawn, and I - to meet up for dinner after one of Misty's swim practices. At least, it was. Lately, Dawn's always been busy. Normally, it's just the three of us now, but Leaf has to tutor Gary today.

"No thanks," I say, ducking away from it. Misty laughs and eats it herself.

"So how was training today?" I ask.

"Great! Oh, guess what?" she asks.

"Um, you got a boyfriend?" I guess jokingly.

She looks unimpressed. "Are you saying that would be such a surprise?" she asks indignantly.

"It was just supposed to be a joke. You know, because your sisters are always on your case about getting a boyfriend?" I say defensively. She calms down a little.

"You're right. Sorry, I lost it there a little," she admits, "Anyway, just when practice was ending, I got a phone call." She pauses dramatically.

"I got invited to the nationals!" she squeals. Misty almost never squeals, so you can tell she's really happy when she does.

"That's amazing!" I say.

"I know! This is great," Misty says, laughing, "Also, I broke my previous record for front crawl today!"

"You're going to do great at the nationals," I say.

"I hope so," Misty says. She eats some more of her suspicious noodles.

I eat my pho too. Beef brisket pho is great without suspicious tendon lumps.

"We're going on a busking field trip in music next week," I say, "We're going to drive to the subway, and then busk in partners for an hour. There's prizes for the pairs that make the most. Dawn and I are totally going to win."

"Good luck with that," she says, laughing, "Busking is hardly lucrative. I read about this super famous cellist who made, like, 19 bucks from an hour of busking, then made thousands of dollars playing at a concert that evening."

"Really? Good thing it's only going to be for fun, then. It hardly seems like a stable career," I say.

Both of our phones light up from a new text in our group conversation.

It's from Dawn.

**OMG I think Paul Shinji's going to play a concert. At least, this gossip blog says so.**

There's also a link to the aformentioned blog.

"I really don't get Dawn's obsession with Paul Shinji. He's a good singer, sure, but all his songs are so depressing. Once, I found this song that I thought was going to be happier, because it was called "In Bloom" and it had a black and white picture of flowers," I tell Misty.

"And?" she asks, "How was that?"

"So I listened to it, and guess what the chorus was?" I ask.

"What?" Misty asks.

_"This bitter spring has almost sprung_

_Growing season's just begun_

_And these dark seeds of hate_

_We've planted in our brains_

_And watered with our tears_

_Have all begun to grow_

_Yes, growing season's just begun_

_And hurt and hate, sadness and pain_

_They're all in bloom_," I tell her.

"Okay, that's just depressing," she agrees.

"Anyway, I don't get what the big buzz about him is. Almost everyone sang and played his songs during assessment in guitar class today," I say, slurping up some noodles ungracefully.

Misty slurps with me.

"Drew texted me yesterday," I blurt out suddenly. Drew's my kind-of-friend. We're both sub-par guitarists, in a class full of really good guitarists. In fact, we're debatably the two worst students in music class. We're constantly competing to not be rock bottom. It's kind of funny. Most times, people compete to be the best. We compete to not be the worst. The competition's friendly, anyway. Most of the time.

Also, Drew's my maybe-crush. I'm not sure if it's a crush or not, because it's kind of unprecedented. I've had only one possibly-crush before, and it was a completely different sensation.

Misty knows. Even though I love Dawn and Leaf, Misty's my best friend, and the one who deals with all my musings, rants, and crises.

"Really? What did he say?" Misty asks, although she doesn't look very interested, but more like she's just playing a character. She doesn't really like gossiping or talking about boys, but she is a supportive friend.

"He just said we should hang out," I say. His exact text was: Hi May. Want to hang out sometime? It was so cryptic. I couldn't figure out what he meant by it. Also, he used completely proper grammar. Who does that when texting? Drew, apparently.

"So what did you say?" Misty asks, still feigning interest, although her eyes give her away.

"I just said sure," I say. It's a little pathetic. I didn't really know what to say, so I just sent back one word. Sure. Looking back, I should have at least added an exclamation point or a happy face. And now I'm obsessing over it. Just great.

Misty doesn't seem to know what to say to continue to conversation. She's not very good at this, obviously. I take pity on Misty and change the subject.

"So, the nationals, Misty! I'm so proud of you!" I gush, returning to our original topic. I really am proud of my friend.

Misty smiles. "I know. I'm still a little speechless. I mean, me at the nationals?" she says, and then laughs a little, "I'm probably going have to train much more now, though."

"Well, at least there's a bunch of restaurants I still want to try. There's this one Chinese place that makes homemade ramen that I really want to try," I respond.

Misty laughs. "That's one way of looking at it."

* * *

"My raspberry rooibos iced tea is much more sophisticated than your drink that is so full of sugar, chemicals, and artificial flavor that it can't be called a latte. Lattes are supposed to taste like coffee," Drew argues.

We end up hanging out a few days after he texts me, at a small café inside a local bookshop. It's a very platonic location, where some friends might hang out and do some homework. It's also a little disappointing.

"Hey! It's a caramel praline macchiato, not a latte!" I protest.

"The term macchiato makes it sound like some sort of nice, authentic coffee drink. Your drink tastes like super sweet rat poison," he claims.

"So? Like I said, how is iced tea any better? You can buy a gallon for two bucks, and it's loaded with just as much sugar and chemicals, and artificial flavor! Also, it hardly tastes like tea!" I retort.

"That's where you're wrong, May," he says, "Because this is not the iced tea you buy for two bucks a gallon. That kind of iced tea, I admit, is junk. This is rooibos iced tea, lightly sweetened and with natural raspberry flavor. It actually tastes like tea. This rooibos tea has a flavor that is very delicate, complex, and floral, that is enhanced with a little sugar and some fruit notes. Here, try some."

I take a sip of his raspberry kangaroo iced tea or whatever.

It's actually really good. As much as I hate to admit it, Drew is right for once. The iced tea tastes like actual tea, and the flavor tastes almost like perfume smells.

"Fine. Your raspberry kangaroo iced tea is halfway decent," I admit, pouting.

"Kangaroo iced tea?" he asks, laughing.

"That's what it sounds like you keep saying," I insist.

"It's rooibos, otherwise known as red tea," he tells me.

"Whatever. Rue-ee-boots. Kangaroo. Same thing," I say.

"You're hopeless," he says, shaking his head and supressing laughter.

"Well, at least I don't look like someone tried to experiment with new agricultural methods on my head," I say petulantly.

"Hey! My choice of hair color is actually very personal, meaningful, and symbolic! Also, do you have any idea how hard it is to find good quality green hair dye?" he asks.

"It still looks like a greenhouse," I insist.

"How about we agree that it looks like a meaningful and symbolic greenhouse?" he offers.

"Fine. A meaningful and symbolic greenhouse it is," I agree.

"How did your assessment go in music class?" he asks.

I was hoping he wouldn't ask. I consider lying to sound better than I am, but I end up being honest.

"I messed up my E major chord and my D minor supertonic chord. I got the key signatures wrong," I admit, "Also, I blanked out in the middle of my freestyle piece."

He smirks. "I played Amelia Queen's Love Letters. That song is relatively easy, but sounds pretty impressive. Also, I played it perfectly," he boasts.

"Well you suck," I retort cleverly, "I'll beat you at busking!"

"More like your partner might," he says laughing, "That is, if you get a good partner."

"Don't we get to choose?" I ask.

"Nope. Ash asked Mrs. Durnes, and she said it's going to be random. It's supposed to help us interact with new people or whatever," Drew says, drinking his kangaroo tea.

"How much do you think we'll make?" I ask, "Apparently, this super famous cellist made less than twenty dollars in an hour of busking, which is ironic, because he apparently made thousands at a concert that night."

"We'll see, won't we? That's what the field trip is about: gaining experience and finding out new things about the music industry," he says.

"Do you have Mr. Connolly for AP English?" I ask. Drew's not in my class, but he might be in one of Mr. Connolly's other AP English classes. At least, I think he's in AP English. I think he mentioned something about it last year.

If so, I want to rub my essay mark in his face. We were assigned an essay about why we learn English, and Leaf and I did pretty well, for Mr. Connolly, at least. He's a hard marker, and we only had one day to work on the essay. Leaf's a great writer. He's already one-upped me on music assessments. I want to beat him on this.

"Yeah. What did you get on the essay?" he asks, looking smug. Oh no. This might not be a good idea after all.

"87%," I say hesitantly.

"Really? We got 100," he says smugly.

"You suck," I say, smacking his arm, "What did you do it on? Leaf and I did it on the importance of communication, and while he claimed the writing was good, one of his comments was that this wasn't a strong enough reason. He wrote that 'knowing the difference between present progressive and present perfect tense isn't essential to communication'."

Drew laughs, for some reason. "To be honest, I originally wanted to do something like that too, but my partner said that same thing. He ended up choosing our topic. It was basically a critique of our education system, and I was scared that we'd fail. He wrote most of it, too. Here, I have a marked copy in my bag," he says, pulling out his essay.

The topic is actually really smart, and the essay is well written and professional. Mr. Connolly's comments are all complimentary, too.

He wrote that he was happy to see someone be brave and choose a topic like this, and that he strongly agreed with all the points, and that the topic was very smart and well phrased. Finally, he wrote that the essay was extremely well written, and, for perhaps the first time in his long teaching career, he had nothing bad to say.

I'm really jealous. Here I was thinking that I had a great mark, because it was the highest mark of anyone I'd asked aside from Drew, and here he is with a perfect mark and amazing comments. Normally, in our constant clashing to not be the worst, we were always pretty close. This, however, was a landslide victory for Team Drew.

Drew notices. "Don't be jealous," he says comfortingly, "Like I said, it was mainly my partner. He's a great writer and he insisted that we choose an honest topic. I probably contributed 6 sentences."

He knows exactly what to say to make me feel better, because it almost instantly quells the jealousy. I'm forced to respect him for being honest and not taking advantage of what he could turn into major points for himself.

"Who was your partner?" I ask, curious about the identity of the true writing genius.

"His name's Paul, but you probably don't know him. He moved here the day before school started," Drew explains, "But you probably saw him in music. He has purple hair."

Come to think of it, I do remember seeing a guy with purple hair in music. He was talking to Drew.

"Oh cool. What's he like?" I ask.

"Not very nice," Drew says, laughing, "At least, that's how he comes off to most people. I think it's more that he's just brutally honest. Wait, is that him?"

Drew points to a guy who's looking at some very thick, academic-looking, hardcovers in the book store section. Sure enough, he has purple hair.

Drew takes a chance and calls out, "Hey Paul!"

The guy turns, and Drew appears to recognize him, which is lucky, because it would have been awkward if it wasn't actually Paul.

Paul leaves the books on the shelf and comes over.

"Oh. It's you," he says dismissively.

"Yeah. Did you see our essay mark yet?" Drew asks, unperturbed.

"Yes, I got a marked copy of the essay in homeroom," Paul says, "See, I told you honesty was a good idea."

"Fine. You win this time," Drew says, "But really, you did a great job on the writing. I don't think Mr. Connolly has ever given 100 percent before, because he's the kind of teacher who says that there's no right or wrong in English, so it's impossible to do perfectly."

Paul just shrugs. "Numbers don't really matter. I said what needed to be said. That's all," he states plainly.

This guy already sounds like fun. Not.

"Someone else I know did their essay on communication," Paul continues, "And Mr. Connolly wrote basically the same thing that I said."

"Yeah, I know. May did the same thing. It's sort of funny," Drew says, "Oh, apparently Paul Shinji is going to play a concert soon."

Paul looks surprised. Is he a Paul Shinji fan? But that his expression meutralizes so quickly I wonder if I imagined the surprise.

"Really? That stupid guy again?" Paul says, scoffing.

"Wait, Drew," I say. I think I finally found my chance to one up Drew. "Where did you find this information? Could it be, wait, one second, let me find Dawn's text," I ask, scrolling through my texts. "Aha! This gossip blog?"

Drew's face goes red. "Ah, no. Ash told me," he stammers.

"Ha! Drew likes gossip blogs!" I announce triumphantly.

"So what?"

I turn to see who spoke.

"So what?" Paul asks again. "So Drew likes gossip blogs. Well, I like playing the guitar. What's wrong with either?"

"Um, well, gossip blogs normally have female readers and-" I start, but Paul cuts me off.

"Then you'd be the one who's wrong," he points out, "Because Drew, or hell, any male, can read gossip blogs if they want. There's nothing wrong with say, a girl reading a sports blog. There's nothing wrong with a child reading a dictionary. Same idea."

"But still, it's a girly habit!" I point out.

"That's sexist," Paul points out, "That's what I'm trying to tell you."

"But, um, uh," I stutter.

Paul looks at me expectantly.

"Why does this matter? Do you read gossip blogs too?" I blurt out. Not my finest retort by far.

Paul seems to share the sentiment. He chuckles drily.

"Why does it matter if I do?" he counters, "But for the record, I don't. I have better things to do."

"So then you just admitted that gossip blogs are a waste of time," I point out gleefully.

"I never said they weren't. I just said that if it's fine for a female to read them, it's fine for a male," he says.

"But there are cases where that doesn't apply. A male can't, for example, use a tampon," I say. Not a very good example, but it gets the point across.

"Because of physical impossibility. What we're talking about here is not physical, but mental," Paul argues.

Ugh. This guy is impossible.

"I rest my case," Paul says smugly.

"Whatever," I mutter. "How do you stand this guy?" I ask Drew.

Drew shrugs. "Magic?" he suggests.

"Who says we stand each other?" Paul points out.

"Ooh, low blow. I might have to steal your guitar again," Drew threatens.

"Please. Save all our ears. Don't do that again," Paul says, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"May here is actually atrociouser at guitar than I am," Drew says, grinning, "Last year, I onyl got the second worst mark in music class. I beat May by a whole 1 percent!"

"Atrociouser?" Paul asks, unamused.

"Yeah! It means more atrocious," Drew says, smirking.

"And this is a real word since when?" Paul asks.

"Since now," Drew responds, still looking smug.

"So could I use it like this? Surprisingly, there is something atrociouser than Drew's guitar playing: his singing," Paul asks.

"You wound me," Drew says, falling over dramatically. "Ow!" he says as he hits his head on the floor.

"I still don't get why you take music. I mean, when you actually try, you don't sound completely awful, but you don't seem very into it. Also, you got the second lowest mark in the class," Paul points out.

Drew grins widely. "Easy marks. Even though I had the second lowest mark, it was still 85%," Drew explains.

I sigh as they banter. Hanging out with Drew was actually really fun, but Drew's hardly said a word to me since Paul came. Great. Now I sound creepily obsessive. It makes sense, though. Paul and Drew seem to be actual friends, not friends/enemies like Drew and I.

"So, busking," Paul says, "I think it's a very clever field trip. I can't think of a better way to truly put us in a musician's shoes."

"Mrs. Durnes is good at planning insightful field trips. Once, she took us to see an orchestra, and then we got to talk to all the musicians after. It was really cool," Drew says.

"What else have you done?" Paul asks.

"Well, once a guy who composes music for movies came in and talked to us about that. It was pretty interesting," Drew recounts.

I remember that day. It was back in Grade 9. He was a good composer, and I wanted to be able to compose like he did. Unlike Drew, I was actually passionate about music in Grade 9, but somehow, I managed to do worse than Drew, who just took the class for easy marks. That was back in Grade 9, though. I then learned that the music industry is highly competitive and far from lucrative, and that I didn't really like music after all. Now, admittedly, I take music for the same reason as Drew.

Paul shrugs, looking far from impressed. "I didn't really want to take music to begin with," Paul tells Drew, "I didn't get to take any of the electives I chose, so I ended up with music."

Drew nods understandingly. "The same thing happened to Ash. He got stuck with foods instead of Spanish," Drew says.

"Oh god. Let's not talk about that buffoon. For our first assignment, I got stuck with him, and we had to make chocolate chip cookies, which are really simple. Turns out, they're not simple when you make them with Ash. He almost messed them up 17 times. I counted. In the end, they were edible, and we got a decent mark, but really. It was three times harder than it had to be. He put in four eggs instead of three, and I had to painstakingly scoop out as close to one egg as possible. Luckily, I caught him right after he cracked them in. If he'd already beaten them..." Paul trails off with a shudder.

I try one last time to put myself into the conversation.

"Hey Drew, how do you pronounce your kangaroo tea's name again?" I ask.

"Rooibos," he says, before turning back to Paul.

Dang. My attempt to turn that into another banter failed miserably.

"Uh, I have to go now. Bye Paul. Bye Drew," I say quietly.

Drew just nods at me. I pick up my stuff and leave the bookstore.

It's a little sad. He barely noticed me leave.

Some confusing part of me wishes that he'd have at least said goodbye, or told me that it was fun, and we should do it again.

I stare back into the cafe, where Paul and Drew are talking as if I never left.

I take a deep breath. So what?

As much as I try, though, I can't convince myself that I don't care, at least a little.


	5. Paul - Be Myself

_And in the dark it's easier to make myself believe_

_That I don't have to be myself_

"Excited to waste a whole hour sitting in a random subway station, singing obnoxiously in an attempt to competitively beg strangers for money?" Drew asks. Obviously, he's thrilled.

He doesn't get it, though. We may just be doing it for fun and experience, but many serious buskers have much more important reasons.

I would know. Been there; done that.

"Okay!" Mrs. Durnes calls, walking into the music room, "I'm going to take attendance."

We're about to leave for our field trip. Surprisingly, the whole class is going, all 24 of us. At least the number will divide nicely.

Once it's been confirmed that everyone's here, Mrs. Durnes outlines how the trip will work.

"We're going to take a school bus to the Magnolia Avenue subway station," she starts, even though we all know this. It was written on the online permission forms. It's a good thing that they were online; it would have been a real pain to mail the form to Reggie.

"Then," she continues, "I'll put you into partners, and we'll split into three groups of four partners, each led by a teacher, either Mr. Brown, Mrs. Franz, or myself. If you're with Mr. Brown, you'll walk three blocks north to the Worthington Street station. If you're with Mrs. Franz, you'll walk two blocks east and one block south to the 23rd Street station. If you're with me, you'll stay at Magnolia Avenue. Everyone will find a spot inside their station, and each pair will be given one of these." Mrs. Durnes holds up a small electronic device on a lanyard. "It will beep when it's time to start, and it will beep again when it's time to stop. You're in pairs, so I suggest you take advantage of that and sing duets, but you can take turns if you'd like. However, you can not split up. There's simply not enough room for eight student buskers in the stations, on top of any regular buskers. When the device beeps, stop and go up to the entrance. There, your teacher will take you to the restaurant we're going to tonight. Does everyone have their guitar or a school guitar?"

She collects everyone's guitar. "Mr. Brown and myself will drive these over in vans to prevent damage," Mrs. Durnes announces.

Soon, we file out to the school parking lot, where an eye searingly yellow-orange school bus awaits us.

Inside, there's rows of seats covered in cracked gray vinyl, each big enough to seat three people, and separated by a long aisle. Bits of trash litter the ground.

Somehow, I find myself sitting with Drew and Ash. Ash insists on the window seat, and I force Drew into the middle, because there's no way I'm going to spend an hour and a half sandwiched between two idiots.

In a perfect world, the bus ride to New Crompton would be quiet and uneventful. Unfortunately, a perfect world doesn't exist.

About fifteen minutes into the bus ride, Drew leans over me and across the aisle, to where May is sitting.

He smirks for a second, before he suddenly leans back and screams, "OH MY GOD MAY! THERE'S A GIANT SPIDER ON YOUR HEAD!"

He's not a very good actor. The corners of his lips tilt up in a slight smile, and he doesn't lean back nearly quickly enough to seem convincingly startled.

Still, I'm analyzing the moment with plenty of common sense, because I know Drew's lying. May is too caught up in the horror of the moment to realize his flawed acting. She jumps back in horror.

It's a strange psychological trick. If you convince someone that there's something on them, they almost feel it.

"AH! I FEEL IT CRAWLING!" May screams. If she payed closer attention, she's realize that her hair fell out of her bandana when she jumped after Drew yelled. It's lightly touching her shoulders, giving the impression of something crawling.

"It fell onto the ground!" Drew claims. The whole bus is in a state of chaos. Many people pull their legs onto their seats, not wanting to be touched by the purported arachnid.

"I think I see it!" someone screams, pointing to a shadow on the floor. As the bus moves, the shadow disappears, making it look like the "spider" crawled away.

"AHHHHH!" a girl screams, jumping up on her seat in an attempt to stay away from the non–existent insect.

"It's there! Someone kill it!" someone screams, pointing to a small piece of litter in the back of the bus.

A girl jumps out of her seat and runs down the aisle, towards the back of the bus.

The bus driver looks clearly unimpressed. "Everybody, sit down and calm down! I don't want anyone to get hurt," he calls loudly, but he's ignored.

The girl keeps on running. As if on cue, the bus lurches, and she falls forward, landing on her face. The piece of litter slides out of sight.

The bus driver shakes his head. "I told you someone would get hurt," he mutters.

For the next half hour, people keep freaking out about supposedly seeing the spider. Drew smirks.

"It's not nice to terrorize people with a made up giant spider," I mutter scornfully.

"What? No! It totally exists!" he insists quietly.

"You're an awful liar," I reply.

"Fine. Guilty as charged. How did you know?" he asks.

"Your acting is as bad as your singing," I point out. He laughs.

"No one else has figured it out. I doubt my acting is that bad," he argues.

I raise an eyebrow. "They all panic too easily," I say, shrugging, "But really, why May of all people? Ash is far more gullible."

He doesn't quite meet my eyes. "Why not?" he asks, but his nonchalance cracks ever so slightly. I meant it when I said he wasn't a great liar.

Admittedly, though, he's not completely horrible. I've had years of experience dealing with sketchy figures. I've learned to scrutinize mannerisms very thoroughly.

Finally, after an extremely chaotic bus ride in a bus full of panicking students, we stop at the subway station.

"I hope the spider crawls out while we're away," someone whispers to their friend.

I don't know how Drew managed to fool everyone.

Mrs. Durnes calls us all over

"Everybody will draw a card from this box," Mrs. Durnes says, holding up a box covered in black paper. "On each card is a colored dot and a teacher's name. Your partner will be the person with the same color and teacher."

We line up to take a card. Mrs. Franz writes down everybody's cards. She claims it's to help in case we can't find our partner, but I'm pretty sure it's to make sure no one switches cards.

I make it to the front of the line, and draw a card. I move to the side, and open it. Mrs. Franz jots down its contents.

Mrs. Durnes is written, followed by a green dot.

Soon, everyone receives their cards, and we begin to find our matches.

Drew has a green dot too, but a different teacher.

I wander around aimlessly, not finding anyone else with a matching card.

"Excuse me, can I see your card?" someone asks. I turn to see a small girl with blue hair.

Wordlessly, I flip my card so that she can see it.

She shows me hers too. A match.

"Great! It looks like we'll be partners!" she says cheerily.

She looks vaguely familiar. Then, I remember that she was sitting with Gary's tutor. She was the one holding the CD. I'm determined not to let that affect my opinion of her too much yet. I know how dangerous it is to judge someone's character without knowing them beforehand.

"Apparently," I mutter, stuffing my hands into my pockets.

Once everyone has found their partner, Mrs. Durnes distributes our guitars. Thankfully, my guitar is completely unharmed. It's very important to me. I care more about my guitar than I care about most people. We're split into our three teacher groups and depart to our subway stations.

The eight of us follow Mrs. Durnes down the stairs into the underground station. All three stations are close to the same size, with the same number of trains coming through each one. Mrs. Durnes hands each pair one of the small devices. I take ours, hanging the lanyard over my neck.

"Find a spot and settle down, but don't start yet," Mrs. Durnes instructs. I take my currently nameless partner to a lottery ticket stand, the busiest location in the station.

I don't acknowledge my partner as I set up my equipment. I brought along a set of tiny speakers and a pair of small microphones with telescopic stands.

"Fancy equipment," my partner acknowledges.

"I take music very seriously. I refuse to give a sub-par performance, even if it's at a subway station," I say brusquely. She looks a little taken aback. Admittedly, I'm being a little bit unnecessarily hostile. Performing with a stranger slightly unnerves me. Performing the music I've written has always been a private and personal ceremony. Even when I record my music, I record it alone, or with help from Reggie. I've never performed publicly or live before, despite my manager's attempts. This will be my first public performance since signing with the label.

Oh, the irony. Finally, I perform a concert, but it's here at a subway station where everyone is too busy with their life to really listen to anything. Coincidentally, if I were to perform an official concert, I'm sure that many people who'll pass me today will spend hundreds on a ticket.

I silently offer a microphone to my partner, partially because I feel a little guilty for being so hostile, and partially because if she's going to perform with me, which seems almost intrusive, she's going to do it right.

"Thanks," she says quietly.

I flick on my speakers, and test the microphones. They seem to be working.

"I'm Dawn, by the way," she says. Her enthusiasm seems a little dulled by my silence. Good.

"Paul," I say curtly, not bothering to look away from my equipment.

"I was wondering what you wanted to play," she asks.

I have two notebooks for writing songs. One has all the songs that have been published or that I plan to publish. The other is full of songs that are either not up to my standards, or too personal to publish. There are some duets at the end of the book, too. very few, of course, because I'd never think about performing a duet with anyone, with perhaps three exceptions, but they were written when I thought two voices would tell the story in the music better than one, and there's enough to play for almost an hour. I've brought the second book with me today, because no one will recognize the unreleased originals.

I take out the book, and flip to the duets

"They're originals. See if you like anything," I say.

She looks through them, quietly humming the melodies that have been written in.

"These are good, but wouldn't it be better to play something published?" she asks, "I mean, published songs are by professionals, people who have dedicated their entire careers to music. Here's a really nice one that's really popular." She offers me a printed score of Everything We Are.

"See, if we add this harmony here, and this part here, and split this, we can make it into a nice duet," she explains, pointing to some penciled in parts.

Ha. She rejects my work, suggesting a published musician who's dedicated their career to music. It's so funny I almost break into laughter, which is saying something, because it's been over a year since I've really laughed. Sure, I've laughed at Drew's awful performance, but it's never been genuine laughter, just laugh-like noises as an expression of amusement. The icing on the cake? She suggests another one of my pieces.

Also, her additions to the song are, to put it bluntly, clumsy. They lack the finesse of the rest of the song, and I almost want to shred the score in her hands, because all my songs are super important to me, and this feels borderline sacrilegious, because unlike Drew's purposeful butchering, she believes she's actually doing a good job.

I hate her already. First, she butchered my art. Also, she's decisively shallow and insipid. How close-minded is it to assume that we should choose a song because it's published and popular? I can't even credit her for being a fan of my music, because she rejected what I showed her. No, she was likely just a fan because my music is popular right now. How stupid. That's the absolute worst kind of fan. Admittedly, though, I have nothing but disdain for almost every fan who isn't a fan of purely the music. I may have decided not to let my previous perception of her color my judgement, but here's my evidence. I have every reason to hate her.

Our device beeps. It's show time.

"I refuse to play this," I announce.

"It's far better than your little collection of amateur dabbling! You have no idea what good music is!" she retorts.

For a fraction of a second, I'm tempted to give up my cover because what she's saying is really hilarious and extremely stupid if one knows who I am. But I refuse to give up my shot at normality for this airhead, so I settle for breaking out into uncontrolled, genuine laughter. It's a little out of character for me, but this is really too funny.

"What are you, bipolar? What's so funny?" she demands angrily.

"You. You're being hilariously superficial," I reply as my laughter fades. Because I'm too stubborn for my own good, I flip open to a random duet and shove it in her face. "We're losing precious time, so stop being an airhead and play this," I say.

"No way in hell," she spits.

A sudden flash of inspiration.

"I propose a bet," I say, "We play your stupid published piece first, and then we play one of mine. We have to play our best for both, and we'll see which song earns us more money. The winner gets a favor from the loser."

"Any favor?" Dawn asks.

"Any favor that costs less than $500 and is not illegal or completely morally wrong," I clarify.

"You're on," she says, eyes glinting fiercely.

So we play her awful arrangement of Everything We Are. Admittedly, I'm a hypocrite; I broke my own rule. I don't sing to my best ability, otherwise, my identity would be obvious, and I'm no idiot.

Instead, I sing in a substantially deeper voice, mirroring Reggie's. He sings my duets with me occasionally. I think he's a good singer, but I'm biased.

Still, it must sound halfway decent, because we make just under two dollars. Not bad for busking.

Dawn seems impressed by my musical aptitude. I can see it from her expression; I'm pretty good at reading people.

She quickly rearranges her face into a neutral mask, though.

"You weren't terrible," she says nonchalantly. She's no better at lying than Drew. We empty our current earnings into her guitar case, and we put my case back out.

I find Through The Looking Glass, a duet that was closer to the start. I wrote it originally as a solo piece, which is why it's not with the rest of the duets. It works much better as a duet, though.

She scans the lyrics. She's obviously impressed, but manages to wipe it off her face quickly.

"No one's going to like this amateur junk more than a professional piece," she claims, but her uncertainty is obvious.

I start the song, singing the first verse. Soon, we've reached the chorus, which is sung by both performers.

_I know you're back there  
_

_I've heard your tortured screams  
_

_But when I look through the looking glass_

_All I see is my haunted reflection_

_I know you're back there_

_I can feel you when I press my hands against the glass_

_But through the looking glass_

_All I seen is my haunted reflection_

Dawn's not completely hopeless. Her voice is decent, and her guitar playing is fine too. But she misses the occasional note, and is a little off key from time to time. Still, I feel that my work is only being partially mauled.

She launches into the second verse.

Soon, she gets to the lines that signal that the chorus is about to come

_No white rabbit's going to save me now_

_You're my only hope but I don't how_

_To rescue you _

_From my own reflection_

Finally, we get to the end, and I sing the final lines.

_I know you're back there_

_I can see a little bit of you_

_In my reflection_

I open my eyes, which were closed the whole time.

The first thing that I'm greeted by is applause. It's light applause, but applause all the same. When busking at the subway, that means a lot.

A small crowd of about five people has gathered.

A few of them compliment us. All of them leave us money.

Most of them drop in some change, but one woman drops in five dollars. The child holding her hand says, "That was a very pretty song!"

We have over eight dollars.

"That's not fair!" Dawn insists, ever the sore loser, "More people walked by this time!"

"How about we keep going, then? We can keep track of the total amount we each make from our chosen songs," I suggest. Her whining is annoying, and I'm confident that I can still win.

"Fine."

We keep alternating between her pop songs and my originals. By the end, we've made a substantial amount, but I've won by far.

"Whatever," she says, sulking, "You can have a stupid favor."

We still have about five minutes, but she refuses to cooperate with me, so I sing a solo.

It's an extremely personal piece. I've never published it, because I don't want the lyrics to be dissected, but it should be okay here, where the words will be lost seconds after they leave my lips.

I adjust the microphone stand and start singing "Be Myself".

I lose myself in the familiar lyrics. The song has always been extremely cathartic for me. Soon, I get to the chorus.

_It's sort of funny how_

_Dark alleyways have become my safe havens_

It's actually true. Alleyways are often free of any other people. If you choose your alley carefully, it can actually be pretty safe.

_And I'm searching for darkness_

_The way most search for light_

It's easier to hide in the dark. It's easier to escape with no one watching.

_I pretend that the light's too blinding_

_And I don't want to close my eyes_

For the longest time, I was scared of closing my eyes. I used to sleep with my eyes open.

_But I'm not fooling myself_

_I know that in the dark_

_I won't have to see myself_

At the time this song was relevant, it was impossible to see myself even in the light. Reggie broke our only mirror by accident, and we hardly had enough money to survive, let alone buy a mirror.

_I won't have to hear myself_

_And in the dark it's easier to make myself believe_

_That I don't have to be myself_

Soon, too soon, the song's over.

Another crowd has gathered. There's a substantial amount of money in the guitar case in front of me.

The crowd soon disperses, except for one man. He's dressed in beat up old clothes, looks tired and scruffy, and likely needs the money in my guitar case infinitely more than I do.

"Kid, I normally don't give to musicians. I don't even have enough money for myself. But your song today, well, it sounded like you knew me my whole life. Your song made me felt understood, kid. It was a beautiful feeling. I could feel the empathy," he says, pulling out his worn, nearly empty wallet, and taking out the only money in it, a five dollar bill.

People like this man are the people I'm trying to reach through music. Here's evidence that I successfully reached one person, and he's about to give me the money he needs infinitely more than I do.

"No!" I shout, stopping him. I lean forward, gathering all the money in both guitar cases. It's an extremely substantial amount; there's even two twenties from some particularly generous passerby.

"I don't even need the money," I say laughing wryly, "I'm here on a school field trip to gain musical experience or whatever. Take it. Take it all. I don't want it." I thrust all the bills and change at him.

"What are you doing?" Dawn speaks up, "We can't just give all our money away! We might have won!"

"Well, then it's a stupid game that I refuse to win!" I declare scornfully. I turn back to the man. "Take it. You need it more than I do," I say, my tone softening, "Don't mind Dawn. She's a shallow idiot."

Dawn looks indignant, but before he can say anything, the man speaks. "Thank you, kid. This is the kindest anyone's been to me in years."

There's the slightest glimmer of a tear at the corner of his eye. He takes the money and leaves.

"What was that for?" Dawn hisses venomously, "It's just as much my money as it is yours! Just because I'm supposedly a "shallow airhead" doesn't mean that I'm going to let you throw away what I earned!"

"Too bad. I've already done that," I say, laughing humorlessly. "But here."

I shove a guitar into her hands, and pull out my own wallet. I extract a hundred dollar bill and drop it in unceremoniously, just as my device beeps.

"Time's up. Enjoy your stupid, worthless money."


	6. Dawn - A Little Bit of Poetry

**A note: Is the high school fic idea annoying, trite, unoriginal, and sickeningly cliched? Oh yes. Of course it is. In regards to that, Staged was originally going to be adult-based, so all the main characters were going to be adults, and that's how it was originally written. However, I wanted the story to have some depth, and I felt that the original version didn't really have much, and there were some plot problems that I couldn't get to work out, while still making the plot believable. My friend and unofficial beta suggested that I change the setting to a high school, because the light setting would juxtapose well with the darker concepts. I loved the irony, so I tried it, and I found that it worked out much better this way. I managed to make it more meaningful, and having younger characters definitely made some changes into the plot, which, in my opinion, made it work a lot better, and contributed a substantial amount of depth. Mainly, though, I just like the irony.**

* * *

_Can't we just believe_

_That we've all got a little bit of poetry_

_That inside, we're all a little bit of poetry_

I can't believe him. Really, I can't.

Aside from the fact that it looks like someone peeled an eggplant over his head (Ha! I'm such a hypocrite.), Paul decides to give all our earnings to some possibly-hobo who might just have a made up sob story.

Admittedly, though, he seemed pretty genuine. If I was to think rationally, he never asked for the money. He was actually going to give us some.

However! Right now is not the time to think rationally! Now is the time to be furious with my stupid partner.

He's already packed up all his equipment, and has started walking away. Ugh.

I quickly slide my school guitar into it's gig bag, but not without first extracting the crisp hundred dollar bill Paul threw inside it. We had about a hundred dollars in the case anyway, if not maybe ten dollars or so less.

I still don't know why Paul first gave away the money that we earned to someone who admittedly needed it more than him, and then tossed a hundred dollars of his own money at me like it was garbage and I was a garbage can. I confess that I'm a little too selfish to do either, although I'm not sure whether the second act should be considered kind or not.

Why am I being rational right now? I must find a way to stay furious at Paul!

I zip up my gig bag and quickly hurry after Paul.

I catch up to him at the subway entrance, where Mrs. Durnes is waiting for us. Some other students have started to gather. When all eight of us arrive, Mrs. Durnes leads us to the restaurant that we're supposed to be meeting at.

"How did it go?" she asks us as we walk. Other people tell stories of their experience, but I don't say anything. I'm not sure what I should say.

We arrive at a large, bright family restaurant that seems popular, judging by the number of people inside and all the cars in the parking lot.

A waiter leads us to a private room, where a large table large enough to seat about 30 people has been set up. The other sixteen students, as well as the two teachers, are already seated.

A classmate, Drew, waves Paul over.

I find May.

"How was it?" she asks.

"Don't go there," I warn.

"Awful, then?" she asks.

"Yes! Paul is so stupid. I hate him," I declare.

"That makes two of us," she says softly, smiling.

"You know him?" I ask, surprised. Couldn't she have given me a warning about him being so... Paul-like?

"I do. I met him when I hung out with Drew," she says, although she doesn't elaborate about why she dislikes him. I consider pressing, but right now, not even the prospect of gossip makes me feel much better.

"Ash and I did fine," she says, taking out a small plastic bag of money, "We made this. He did practically all of it, though. He insisted on taking over after he heard me sing." I know that a few years ago, such a reaction would have hurt May, but now, she just laughs it off.

After everyone has ordered, Mrs. Durnes starts talking.

"How was that, everyone?" she asks. Many people start talking at once.

"So, about how much did everyone make?" she asks. She goes around the table. Many people made less than twenty dollars, although a couple pairs make closer to fifty, and Drew's group makes $5.32.

"No one recognizes true talent," he says, shrugging and sounding largely unaffected.

Soon, Mrs. Durnes gets to me.

"How much did you and Paul make?" she asks.

"A hundred dollars," I announce softly.

She looks impressed. "Good job! Exactly a hundred?" she asks.

"Exactly," I say, fishing out the hundred dollar bill.

Now she just looks confused.

"So only one person donated, and they gave you a hundred dollars?" she asks, confused.

"Uh, the thing is, Paul decided to be an idiot and give all our money to someone," I say vaguely.

"What's the meaning of this?" she asks Paul, looking thoroughly unimpressed. Take that, Paul.

"What's the meaning of the field trip?" Paul asks, his tone growing steadily louder and more bitter. "To gain experience about music in the real world? Well, sorry to break it to you, but I have plenty of that already. I have experience busking, and I know that there's a line, a point where some people shouldn't donate. Dawn seems to like to twist stories so that they fit her shallow life perception. Someone tried to give us money because he really empathized with the song I sung. He clearly needed it more than we did, so I gave all our money to him. Dawn, being infinitely superficial, complained, so I handed her a guitar and gave her the worthless money she wanted so badly."

The whole room is silent for a few seconds.

"Um," Mrs. Durnes stammers, obviously unaware of how to react, "Um, you acted rather honorably, Paul, but don't you think that you're-" she starts, but I've had enough of this guy's bullshit, so I cut her off.

"The money was just as much mine as it was yours. Also, we were told to keep it! We need to to know how made for educational purposes. And half of it was going to go to charity!" I argue.

"I'd argue I did more than you did. All my original pieces made us much more than your recycled trash," he says scornfully, "Also, didn't I just say that I have plenty of "musical experience"? If you want to know how much, on average, one can make while busking, I can give you the number. Oh, and your point about charity? I more than covered what we made with the hundred dollars, didn't I? And if you can get me the name of the charity we're going to donate to, I'll gladly write a cheque for 500 more!"

"Calm down!" Mrs. Franz says loudly. We both turn to her. She gestures towards Mrs. Durnes.

"That's enough, you two!" Mrs. Durnes says, looking frazzled, "This behavior is unacceptable on a field trip."

Paul doesn't even look at her. He just glares at me icily. I fight the urge to flinch. If looks could kill...

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Durnes," I say quietly. Paul says nothing.

She sighs. "Don't let it happen again," she says. She probably just doesn't know how to deal with us.

First, we vote for the charity we want to donate to. We end up choosing a foundation that helps children with terminal illness. Mrs. Durnes collects half of everyone's money. She takes our hundred dollar bill and gives us fifty dollars in a pile of smaller bills.

True to his word, Paul pulls out a chequebook and signs the promised cheque. Mrs. Durnes is shocked, but happy enough that I assume we're forgiven.

I start to split our money into two piles, but Paul shoves it all to me.

"Keep your precious money," he scoffs. I'm more than happy to comply.

"So, what did you learn about busking?" Mrs. Durnes asks.

"I feel bad for not donating to other buskers now, because usually, I just awkwardly try to rush by without making eye contact," Ash admits, "I found myself feeling grateful when two people donated bills instead of coins."

Many people share similar sentiments. I don't say anything, because all I learned was that Paul is an idiot.

Paul refuses to say anything either. Mrs. Durnes notices. She obviously hasn't completely forgiven us, because she asks, "What did you learn, Dawn?"

I blurt out the first thing I can think of. "The public seriously undervalues music."

"Okay, good. Paul?" she asks.

"Context matters," he states plainly.

"What do you mean by that?" Mrs. Durnes probes.

"Think of it this way. Chances are, years later, someone in this class is probably going to make it big in the music industry. Then, people will pay hundreds of dollars for a ticket. Here, few people spared the same person a second glance," he explains, "People don't undervalue music. Most people don't value music to begin with. Chances are, almost everyone who gave us money gave it to us out of pity, rather than actually liking the music. That's why this was a stupid field trip."

Apparently, Paul's blatant rudeness extends past just me.

Mrs. Durnes, not quite sure how to react, moves on. "So, let's tally who made the most," she instructs. We place our money in front of us, and all three teachers come by to count what we've made.

Technically, we've made the most, but Paul insists that we don't count.

"All the money came from me, not from actual passerby. It doesn't count," he insists.

We would have won if he hadn't given all our money away. Seriously, doesn't he realize that I exist, and that I want to win?

Mrs. Durnes complies, and doesn't give us the prize. Instead, Ash and May win.

"Take that, Drew!" May says, a little too loudly. Drew coughs, the cough sounding suspiciously like "English essay".

I touch the fifty dollars in my pocket. Maybe I did end up winning a little anyway.

* * *

"Dawn," Misty asks, "Are you sure you don't want to come? May and I went yesterday, and their pad Thai is amazing."

"I'm fine, but you three have fun," I say.

"But you never come!" May complains, "You haven't come for the past 34 times!"

"You kept track?" I ask, shocked.

"No. I made the number up," May admits, "But it sounds reasonable!"

The money we made busking a few days ago is still in my purse. It won't hurt to use a little spending time with my friends.

"Fine," I relent.

"Great," Leaf says. She sounds about as excited as me, which isn't excited at all. I'm probably not the only one annoyed by May's persistence.

After Misty's swim practice, we go to the Thai restaurant in question and settle into a booth. Misty and Leaf leave to wash their hands.

"So Dawn, can I ask you something?" May asks me, flipping through her menu. I figure that she's going to ask for my opinion on a menu selection, so I agree.

Suddenly, she puts the menu down, looking at me uncharacteristically seriously.

"Why do you never come with us after school anymore, Dawn?" she asks quietly.

Damn it. I was hoping she wouldn't bring this up.

"You know, just work and stuff. Life is busy," I say vaguely.

"You have a job? What do you do?" she asks. All the seriousness is gone, replaced by bright curiosity.

And now I'm the one who said the wrong thing. Just great.

"I work odd jobs for a small business," I say, picking my words carefully.

"Oh, that sounds fun!" she says. Far from it, actually.

"So it keeps you busy a lot?" May asks. She's surprisingly unobservant.

"Yeah," I reply.

"You always look tired these days, and your mood's been falling. Your job seems pretty tough. It's a good thing that it's nothing more serious than your job, anyway. I was seriously worrying about you!" May chirps. Scratch that. May is actually very observant.

Luckily, I'm saved by Misty and Leaf coming back into the booth.

"Hi guys!" I say cheerily, obliterating any remains of my previous conversation with May.

I must not be doing a good enough job of pretending to be constantly happy. I'll have to try harder. Instinctively, I smile a little bit brighter.

* * *

"You and your partner will have a week to finish the experiment and the write-up. This will be due next Monday," Mrs. Grant, my chemistry teacher, announces. I look down at the lab we're supposed to do for chemistry. It's something about observing chemical reactions in household products. It's a good thing I'm not in AP chemistry. Some of the experiments for that are insane.

"So, who's house do you want to do the experiment at, mine or yours?" Misty asks.

"Is it okay if we do it at yours?" I ask. I feel a little bad, of course, because ever since Grade 6, we've always done everything at anyone's house but mine, but I quash the feeling, because right now, I really can't afford to feel bad. I've managed for five years, and there's only one more year to go. One more year before I can leave behind everything, drag my mother across the country, and start over. One more year. It's become my mantra.

"Sure," Misty says, and I internally sigh in relief, but then she suddenly says, "Crap, actually, no. My sisters are throwing a bachelorette party for a friend next week, so I've been officially kicked out of the house until next Friday, save for my bedroom, and we can hardly experiment in there. Is it fine if we go to your house this time?"

No. Misty might be a close friend, but no one except my mother and I have been to my house since that incident five years ago, and it will stay that way. I'm not going to let everything I've done to keep the incident secret go to waste. One more year. One more year, and I'm home free. No one will ever know, except for me, my mother, and my dead father.

"No!" I say, a little too forcefully. Argh. That's not very convincing. I can't panic now. "Sorry, it's just that my mom has pneumonia, and I really don't want to disturb her," I lie quickly, covering up my mistake effortlessly. It's a little disturbing how easily the lie has come.

"Oh true. But your house is huge, right? At least, that's how I remember it. I used to go there all the time, but I haven't been there since we were twelve," Misty says, laughing.

Was. My house was huge.

Misty has a good memory. Hopefully, she's not going to ask why I've never invited her back. Otherwise, I'll have to lie again, and lying has become too unnaturally natural.

"Someone's doing electrical work at my house, though. I think one extra person in the house is more than enough," I lie, letting my voice drop. I've become a pretty good actress, and I let fabricated concern seep into my voice. But ha! As if I'd let an electrician into my house!

"We can work with May and Leaf then. We can all do it together," Misty suggests, "I'll text May right now." Thank goodness for May.

"Good idea," I say, smiling brightly like I resolved to, but all I can think was that I barely dodged a bullet there.

* * *

My house is at the very edge of Belleview Heights, and the driveway starts in a forest. There's an impressive, tall stone wall around my house, with a wooden gate. There's a key card panel on the gate, but it doesn't work anymore, and we never use it anyway. I just lift a covert latch and push open the gate.

The sheer size of my house stopped being such a surprise to me years ago. I let myself in through a back door.

"Mom?" I say quietly. She's not here. I don't know why I let it disappoint me still. I guess I just wish that she'd spend a little more time with me, especially after the events of the past few years. She's always busy with something, it seems. Too busy for me.

I sigh. My phone rings. It's my boss.

"Berlitz. Tomorrow at 8 pm, at Point B3. The code is Butterfly Ridge 36." His tone is curt, succinct, and harsh. He hangs up immediately after. The strange code has become like a second language to me, and I understand what he wants me to do even with his few words.

My job is hardly ideal, but I'll take what I can get. I can't really afford to be picky right now.

But what to do now? My mom's not home, I have no work, and I'm not spending a single minute in my house if I don't have to. Also, I'm feeling suffocating and more miserable than I normally do. This can't be normal, except that it is, because it's become normal over the past years.

But I know where to go when I feel more miserable than usual. Leaf. She's my best friend, and I think on some fundamental level, we understand each other perfectly. I don't need to explain myself to her. She just gets it when I'm upset.

I hop on my bike and ride to her house. She's fine if I don't tell her in advance. She understands that this isn't something I can control or predict.

Leaf is sitting on her porch with her laptop. I'm not sure if I'm imagining it, but I think she looks distressed.

I sit down beside her.

"Hey!" I chirp brightly.

She slams her computer shut, jumping back a little and looking shaken.

"Oh, it's just you, Dawn. You surprised me," she says, laughing a little. She still looks shaken, though. There's more here than meets the eye.

"So, whatcha doing?" I ask.

"Messaging a friend," she says, "It's getting cold. Let's go inside."

I follow her, but I don't completely believe her.

I may have simply misread it, but judging from what I managed to glimpse on her screen, the person who was messaging her seemed like no friend.


	7. Drew - Trashy But Popular Pop Love Song

_This song is trash but who really cares_

_The shallow method and catchy beat appeal to modern ears_

_This is more noise than music but I don't think it's wrong_

_Because this is a trashy but popular pop love song_

* * *

I stare at the golf ball resting on the tee, and then look at the flag I'm aiming for. Taking a deep breath, I steady my 5-iron. Recalling every pointer my dad has given me about golf, I swing the club.

The ball soars into the air... and plunks down unceremoniously three feet in front of me.

"Uh, sorry Dad," I say, embarrassed. My dad is standing to the side of the golf course, wearing a professional looking suit.

"Andrew Hayden, you are such a disgrace to this family. At this rate, you are going to ruin the whole meeting with my clients at the golf course tomorrow!" he says, but then he laughs. "Kidding, son. You're doing fine. I doubt this deal depends on your golf skills."

Even had he not told me that he wasn't serious, I would have still known that he was kidding. My dad may be a hugely successful businessman, but he's always had his priorities straight, and values his family over any amount of money. He's proven it time and time again, most prominently last year. I made a mistake that almost cost him his business empire, but he didn't even mention it. He just wanted to make sure I was okay.

It was a stupid mistake. I still haven't forgiven myself.

Eventually, I get the ball to go forward instead of up, although I still miss the hole every single time. It's no surprise. This happens every time my dad has a golf meeting, but each time, we still come to the golf course beforehand and try to turn me into a golf champion in less than three days. Obviously, it doesn't work. In fact, I feel like I'm getting worse each time.

On the car ride home, May texts me.

**Hiii! :)**

I stare at the text, and then type something back.

**Hello, May. How are you?**

Making sure to use proper punctuation and capitalization is a pain, but it's a business trick I picked up from my father. Whenever he's caught up in a business deal he's unsure about, he throws in tons of long words to sound like he knows what he's doing. Similarly, when I text people I don't usually text, I use perfect grammar, long words where appropriate, and avoid abbreviations and emoticons at all costs.

When we arrive home, I get out and close the door behind me. My dad opens the garage and starts to park.

Next door, I see Paul. He's sitting in his car.

I walk over to go talk to him. When I get close enough, I realize that he's talking on the phone, and that the window is open a tiny bit so I can hear what he's saying.

"I don't care about millions upon millions of dollars in endorsement deals. Tell them no. No, I'm not changing my mind. God knows I have enough money as it is. Well hell yeah I'm avoiding you. Glad you picked up on the subtle social cue of me moving halfway across the country without telling you. No, I don't care about the contracts. Contact my brother if you have anything important to say. If that's all, thank you for only wasting minimal amounts of my time, and have a terrible day." He hangs up on the last line. He opens the door and sees me.

"Who were you talking to?" I ask.

"Just my brother. He's out buying furniture right now, and he wanted to know what color sheets I wanted," he says, his face perfectly impassive.

At first, the lie is so blatant I wonder if he's being sarcastic, but then I realize. He didn't notice his window was open, and I wasn't supposed to hear what I heard.

"Uh, cool," I say awkwardly. I attempt to quickly find a way to change the subject. I decide to ask him about guitar, which was what I came here to talk to him about anyway. "By the way, I wanted to ask you about the barring for the F chord. How do you manage to do it?"

"You've been playing guitar for a few years, right?" he asks.

"Yes," I respond.

"And you still don't know how to play an F?" he asks, looking incredulous.

I hold my hands up defensively. "I never claimed to be good at it!"

He sighs. "Come in," he says grudgingly.

I follow him into his house. He's lived here for a few days, but it still looks impersonal. There's no furniture, aside from a simple desk and a table in the kitchen. And although the first thing most people do when they move into a new house is put up decorations with some sort of sentimental value, the walls are bare, and the simple picture frame on the desk still holds the sample picture it came with.

He extracts his guitar from the office, takes a plain black guitar pick from a desk, and then takes me to the kitchen table. Two chairs are set up around a small round table, probably for him and his brother.

"Now, we will delve into the rocket science that is the barre chord," he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. First, he barres the first fret.

"Barre," he announces ceremoniously. He slides his middle and fourth finger into position.

"Chord," he says. "See? Rocket science."

"I'd say thanks if that was actually helpful. It wasn't," I say.

"Good," he replies, "If that's all, then I must unkindly ask you to leave."

I refuse to leave that easily. I quickly snatch his guitar and try to replicate the chord he played with such ease. I barre the first fret and place my other two fingers. I strum. I apparently haven't fretted it right, because most of the notes don't play. Paul has the nerve to cover his ears.

After his dramatic reaction to my _lovely_ guitar playing, he examines my fingers. "Roll your finger," he instructs, "It's easier to bar evenly if you use the hard side of your finger."

I follow his instructions. He adjusts my fingers a little, and then strums each string one by one.

"Move the third finger a little closer to the fret wire," he says. I move my finger.

He plucks each string again, and they all ring clearly. He hands me the pick, and I strum the chord. It actually sounds like an F. I'm probably going to mess it up the second he takes away the fingers holding my fingers in place, but oh well. Small victories.

"There. Rocket science experiment complete. Now leave and have an awful day," he says.

I've learned to analyze people from my dad. It's useful in business. But I can't get a read on Paul. He's helpful sometimes to the point of almost being nice, but so abrasive I can't tell what he thinks of me. Is he a friend, or someone who finds me irritating?

I give up on it. He's impossible to read. It's like he's intentionally trying to prevent me form understanding him.

* * *

"Want to come swimming with me after school?" Misty asks. Our Spanish teacher, Mr. Fisher, has given us a worksheet to complete, but Misty and I have already finished it. As she's so fond of reminding me, her maternal grandfather came from Spain, so she's a quarter Spanish. Her Spanish is good enough to get the both of us through this class with an A.

"Sure," I say. Now that Misty has been invited to the nationals, she trains every day. On the days she can't get her coach to come, she invites me. I'm nowhere near as good as her, but I can swim pretty decently. I took lifeguard training a couple years ago.

Mr. Fisher hands out another worksheet.

Misty starts writing. I start copying. Halfway through, she suddenly stops.

"I've had an epiphany," she announces.

"What?" I ask.

"I shouldn't let you copy my work. You don't learn anything," she says.

I discretely lean towards her.

"Who cares?" I ask.

"Me. I don't want "prevented Drew from reaching his full Spanish potential" on my conscience,"she says.

I'm about ten centimeters from her ear.

I suddenly lean in and scream, "TU ES UNA PENDEJA!" in her ear. Admittedly, it's not really screaming. If I had screamed, Mr. Fisher would not be impressed. However, it would definitely have startled her.

She jumps back, looking angered.

"What was that for?" she screams, smacking my leg. She's not as quiet as me. I wince a little at the smack, but I've been friends with Misty for three years, and I've gotten used to it.

Mr. Fisher shoots her an irritated look. She stares back at him innocently. After a few seconds, he goes back to looking through lesson plans.

"What was that for?" she repeats, this time more quietly.

"I just proved that my Spanish is plenty good," I say.

"You said a single sentence, and hardly a useful one. If you get lost in a Spanish speaking country, "tu es una pendeja" is going to be more harm than help," she points out.

"Then it's a good thing I don't have plans to go to a Spanish speaking country," I say, smirking.

"You're incorrigible," she says, laughing. She lets me keep copying her, which is good, because if she didn't I'd probably fail Spanish.

Oh well. That's what friends are for.

* * *

Misty touches the wall, and I press END on the stopwatch she gave me.

I toss her the stopwatch, and she looks at it.

"I'm just getting worse," she groans, pulling herself out of the public length swimming lane she used. She throws the stopwatch into the pool. It lands with a splash.

"You're probably just overworking yourself. I swear, you just swam for three and a half hours straight. If you keep this up, you're obviously going to tire yourself out," I point out.

"I know," she admits, "I'm not supposed to train this much, but I'm nervous. What if I'm not ready for the nationals?"

"Remember when I played field hockey last year?" I ask.

"Yes," she said, "But you stopped."

"We had a big game. I practiced too hard for the game, sprained my ankle, and ended up not being able to play in the game. Irony at its finest. You do want to swim in the nationals, right?" I say.

"Fine," she says. She's aggressive, but honest and open. That makes her too easy to manipulate. I didn't give a damn about field hockey. I joined because that was Ash's current fad hobby, and I quit before that game because I was too busy almost destroying my dad's business empire. By accident, of course, but still. I figure it's not too bad a lie, because the repercussions of my mistakes hurt exponentially more than a sprained ankle, so at least I'm not exaggerating.

"I'm going to meet May for sushi. You should come," she offers, climbing out of the pool.

"I have golf practice," I say quickly.

She laughs. It's our little joke. We both know that no amount of practice will improve my golfing.

Her face turns serious. "I don't know what happened when you went to that bookstore with May, but she's been weird whenever I bring you up ever since that day. I want to see for myself why that is," she explains.

I sigh. We were going to have to come to this eventually, so I may as well get it out of the way.

"She reminds me of... the other girl. You know, at the start," I say vaguely. Misty doesn't know the whole story, but she knows enough.

Her expression softens. "I know May. I promise, she isn't like that."

"Fine."

* * *

"Sweet rat poison passed off as Italian coffee, and now that? What's next, Happy Dragon fried rice passed off as authentic Chinese food?" I say, staring disdainfully at her California roll, which is stuffed with mayonnaise and fake crab.

Happy Dragon Chinese Restaurant is one of the few Chinese restaurants in town. although it's far from Chinese. Their "Chinese Fried Rice" uses a base of Mexican rice, and has taco seasoning in it.

"Shut up, you. If being authentic means eating that," she says, gesturing to my eel sashimi, "I'm perfectly fine with my California roll. At least I'm not at risk of food poisoning from uncooked, suspicious-looking eel lumps.

Misty quietly eats her yam tempura, smirking the whole time.

"We're at a Japanese restaurant, May. You didn't even pick something with a Japanese name. I bet it's the only thing you recognize," I point out.

"Oh yeah?" she asks, her tone challenging. "I was planning to order a-,"she breaks off a little to surreptitiously glance at her menu, "tako nigiri as soon as I finished my California roll. Tako nigiri is my favorite! I have it all the time."

I smirk. I think she chose it because it looked easy to pronounce.

"May I please have a tako nigiri?" May asks the waiter. She's in for a surprise.

A few minutes later, the waiter drops off a plate with an ebi nigiri for Misty, salmon sashimi for me, and a tako nigiri for May.

She looks at the little balls of rice topped with thin white slices of raw seafood with faint relief. She probably hasn't realized what it is.

She bites into it.

"Yum!" she says. She looks like she's truly enjoying it.

"Is the raw octopus good?" I ask innocently.

"This is octopus!?" she asks, spitting the piece she's eating into a napkin.

"I thought you said you had it all the time," I say, placidly taking a bite of my sashimi.

"I, uh, you, urm, SHUT UP!" she says, glaring at me. "I am now going to eat this octopus sushi and ignore you. By the way, I love octopus sushi, and have it all the time," she says.

Misty looks at me. I look back at her. I get the feeling that she's trying to convey some sort of message to me, but I have no idea what she's trying to say, so I just stare at her intensely.

Cue heated staring contest.

Misty is forced to look away when May asks her a question. Victory!

After answering May, my phone vibrates with a text. Likely from Misty, judging by the way I just saw her type something on her phone. I start to take out my phone, but Misty motions for me to read the text under the table.

I surretiously hold my phone under the table and read. Like I suspected, it's from Misty.

**I have some things to say to you. Mostly angry things. Make up some excuse to step out for a few minutes, then walk down the street. I'll meet you there right after. **

At first, I stare defiantly at Misty, sending the message that I refuse to comply.

Buzz. My phone vibrates again.

**Seriously.**

And again.

**Do it now.**

And again.

**NOW.**

Finally, I concede. Still holding my phone under the table, I play my ringtone.

May and Misty look at me.

I pretend to check my caller ID.

"It's my dad," I say. I "answer" the phone.

"Hi Dad. What's up? Wait, really? I thought you said that the deal was going well. Oh, that's not too bad, I guess. Where are the documents right now? The Sycamore Road office? I'm at the sushi place across the street from there with some friends. I'll go there and pick them up after we're done. What? Why is Amaya closing it so early? Fine, I'll just run down there now. Bye." I pretend to hang up.

"I'm going to go pick up some documents from my dad's office across the street. I'll be right back," I say, leaving through the propped open door and walking down the street, as per Misty's instructions.

About thirty seconds later, I'm hit in the face with the yellow scarf Misty was wearing today.

"Sorry. I had to toss my scarf out the door and pretend that the wind blew it away. It's good that we were sitting by the door," Misty says, running up to me.

"I thought you did that on purpose," I say, handing back the scarf, "I wouldn't put it past you."

"Really, Drew. Why do you think of me in such ways?" she asks, shaking her head. "If I did that on purpose, it would have hit you harder. Much harder."

"Why are we here?" I ask.

"I get that your constant banter with May is one of your 'endearing' personality traits, but can you give May a bit of a break? I don't what's up with Dawn right now, but she's being a bit of a bitch for the past few days, especially to May, because May keeps trying to help her. Also, Leaf has barely talked to any of us this past week," Misty informs me.

"Wait, did you just say that Leaf has barely talked to any of you the past week?" I say.

"Yeah. She only will talk if you ask her something, and her answers are really curt and evasive. Also, I think she's trying to avoid us," Misty says, "That, or she's trying to ignore us. She doesn't even pick up the phone."

"Leaf's the brunette one who's super feminist and into social justice, right?" I ask.

"Yes."

"She's the one who, when she was sitting with May and I went to ask May something, asked about political views, and when I told her I didn't have any strong ones, she said that to be neutral in the face of oppression was to side with the oppressor, right?" I try to confirm.

"Yeah, that definitely sounds like Leaf."

"And she's the one who refused to participate in partner dancing when we did square dancing last year in gym, because each girl was randomly assigned a male partner, and she insisted that the partnering was heteronormative?"

"Yep."

"And she's the one who led a protest against our social studies textbook because all the history was 'Eurocentric'?"

"Yeah."

"And she's the one that is constantly talking to random people about kyriarchy, insists that we're being ableist when we use words like dumb and lame, made a huge deal about the fact that the survey we did in Grade 10 had a question about gender that didn't include intersex or agender options, has wanted to be a gynecologist ever since she was in kindergarten, has a feminism and social justice blog with thousands of regular readers, and was hired to speak at that huge LGBTQ pride event that took place over the summer a few towns away?"

"Yep."

"You're joking," I say, shaking my head incredulously, "That girl doesn't shut up, even if you want her to. We barely know each other, but she always makes a point to load me up on random bits of pro-choice propaganda, or tips on, and I quote, 'battling kyriarchy'," I say.

"Believe it. She hasn't said a single word about ableism, sexism, racism, or anything like that in the past week," Misty tells me. "I have no idea why."

"See, girls are such drama," I said, shaking my head.

"If Leaf was here, she'd accuse you of sexism and misogyny," Misty says, laughing, "I once told her that I liked hanging out with you because you were less drama than the girls, and she went on a ten minute long speech about internalized misogyny. I mean, yeah, it's a stereotype, but I guess it's there for a reason. Because I love my friends and all, but they're seriously so dramatic. Especially Dawn."

"May's probably getting impatient. To revert to our earlier point, yes, I'll try to be a little nicer. But you've known me for years. I don't really do 'nice'," I say.

"Well you better try pretty damn hard, because if you make May even more upset, I'm not letting you copy my Spanish homework for a month," she says, putting her scarf back on and heading back for the restaurant.

"Wait for thirty seconds, and then start coming back," Misty calls over her shoulder.

Just to spite her, I only wait 28 seconds.

"Ugh. It turns out that my dad's assistant already took the documents," I say as I walk in, "By the way, May, sorry for doubting the frequency of your consumption of octopus."

May glares at me. Misty whacks me under the table. I realize too late that I probably sounded sarcastic.

"Like, seriously," I add lamely. May says nothing.

We finish our food, and the waiter brings the bill. May starts dividing the bill in three, but I take it from her. I lay down a hundred dollar bill for the jsut under fifty dollar meal.

"No change," I tell the waiter.

May starts to protest, but I cut her off.

"Guess where I get my money from, May. That's right, my dad. And I'm kind of pissed at him right now because he made me go to his office for no reason, so I'm going to be petty and spend his money. Now stop complaining," I drawl. She laughs, like I knew she would.

I'm not actually mad at my dad - I don't think I've ever been - and I feel kind of guilty lying about the documents, but I kind of really wanted to pay for May, and make her laugh. Partially because I don't want to fail Spanish, and partially for a much more ambiguous reason.

"Want some cookies or something?" I ask, "We can stop by Ash's bakery."

We walk about five minutes to Ketchum and Co. Cake Company, which is located right in the heart of our small and slightly pathetic downtown area. Belleview is quite small, so calling the area downtown is a bit of a joke, but it is the business center and busiest part of town.

"I overheard Mrs. Durnes talking about our next music assignment to another teacher," I say as we walk, "We're supposed to write and record a song, and film our own music videos. We get to choose partners. I don't want to work with Ash, because he's so good he'll make me look bad. Want to do it together?

"Sure," May says, smiling brightly. I guess I'm forgiven.

We start joking about what our song will sound like.

"We should call it 'Trashy But Popular Pop Love Song'," May suggests. "The chorus can go something like this."

_This song is trash but who really cares_

_The shallow method and catchy beat appeal to modern young ears_

I laugh and add to it.

_This is more noise than music but I don't think that's really wrong_

_Because this is a trashy but popular pop love song_

"You guys deserve an award for that," Misty says, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

But even though I know she's being sarcastic, I think I do deserve an award, but not for the song. No, I deserve the award, for, against all odds, actually managing to be nice for an extended period of time. That, and my acting about the documents back at the restaurant.

If I was to be completely honest, though, making May happy is a bit of a reward.

Also, not failing Spanish is a nice plus.


End file.
